


Lullaby

by akire_yta



Category: Star Trek: Enterprise
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-02-11
Updated: 2009-02-11
Packaged: 2017-12-24 13:34:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/940579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akire_yta/pseuds/akire_yta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Poetry to make the heart grow fonder</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lullaby

**Author's Note:**

> the poetry series

He found the first one taped to his door in such a way that when he left his quarters it fluttered to the floor at his feet. He picked it up, curious. Touch told him it was real paper, soft and textured. He looked up and down the corridor, but as expected, he saw no one.

Paused on the threshold, he cautiously opened the folded scrap. Green ink etched in graceful, careful, loops and arcs. For a moment, he just stared. Paper was rare enough, and he could not recall the last time he saw handwriting, let alone calligraphy.

Then the words that were written seeped into his mind. He read them once, then read them again, his lips silently moving as he spoke the ancient, familiar, words to himself.

Lay your sleeping head, my love,  
Human on my faithless arm;  
Time and fevers burn away  
Individual beauty from  
Thoughtful children, and the grave  
Proves the child ephemeral:  
But in my arms till break of day  
Let the living creature lie,  
Mortal, guilty, but to me  
The entirely beautiful.

 

He closed the fold carefully, not wanting to add any more creases to the page. Gently, he slid it into his chest pocket, and, with a thoughtful expression, continued on his way to the mess hall.

~#~

The second one was waiting in his armoury. He knew he was a creature of habit, knew that his routine had him within his domain a good half an hour before anyone else appeared. He preferred this time alone, and made his preference known to his teams. He liked having this time to make sure all was right with his ship before beginning the work of the day.

His poetic ghost obviously knew his routine as well. The carefully folded piece of cream-coloured paper was sitting on his station, instantly noticeable amid all the grey steel and black paneling.

He paused only a second before picking up the page. It was the same green ink, the same graceful writing. He smiled to himself as he read the verse it contained.

Soul and body have no bounds:  
To lovers as they lie upon  
Her tolerant enchanted slope  
In their ordinary swoon,  
Grave the vision Venus sends  
Of supernatural sympathy,  
Universal love and hope;  
While an abstract insight wakes  
Among the glaciers and the rocks  
The hermit's carnal ecstasy.

 

He raised an eyebrow as he refolded the piece.

"Morning, sir!"

He slid the page into his pocket as he turned around. "Good morning, Mister Tanner." He couldn't help himself. "Bearding the hermit's den early, I see."

"Sir?"

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the silly, giddy feeling that had been building up inside of him. "Nothing, crewman. Let's get started on that aft cannon assembly."

~#~

Despite keeping his eyes peeled for more tell-tale pieces of paper, he received no more poetry that day. He firmly straightened himself out as he rode the lift to the mess hall, and tried not to feel put out by lack of any more mysterious gifts.

"Malcolm!" a familiar voice hailed him as he walked into the busy mess hall. Waving a greeting, he fetched himself a tray before moving over to join Travis.

"Evening," he greeted him as he settled himself down at the table. "Just us tonight?"

Travis nodded. "Commander Tucker was in here a little while ago, but he had to go back to the engine room. Said something about a difficult repair he was working on." He grinned. "Poor guys gonna be there until tomorrow, by the sound of it. But hey, have you heard the rumour?"

Nodding briefly, he applied himself to his meal as Travis caught him up on the latest shipboard gossip. But his thoughts were far away, lines of poetry echoing around his mind. A female voice cut through his musings. "Lieutenant?"

Blinking, cursing himself for drifting so far, he looked up and smiled at Hoshi. "Sorry, miles away. How are you, Hoshi?"

"Intrigued," she replied with a playful grin. "I've never had to physically deliver intra-ship mail before."

With a mounting sense of dread, he accepted the now-familiar creamy fold of paper. He looked at it for a long moment, the texture warm and soothing under his touch. "If you would excuse me?" he murmured as he rose to his feet.

Hoshi groaned. "Spoilsport. Its been burning a hole in my pocket all day."

Malcolm frowned. "All day?"

She nodded as she stole a carrot stick off his tray. "It was on my console when I went on duty this morning, in an envelope which had strict delivery instructions written on it." She shrugged. "I didn't even know we had that kind of paper on board." She nibbled on the edge of the stick as she looked at him. "So, who's it from?"

He slipped the unread note into his pocket and picked up his tray. "Good evening, ensigns." Ignoring their theatrical groans of disappointment, he beat a hasty retreat from the mess hall crowds. He forced himself not to open it until he was safely back in his quarters.

Certainty, fidelity  
On the stroke of midnight pass  
Like vibrations of a bell  
And fashionable madmen raise  
Their pedantic boring cry:  
Every farthing of the cost,  
All the dreaded cards foretell,  
Shall be paid, but from this night  
Not a whisper, not a thought,  
Not a kiss nor look be lost.

 

Sighing, he retrieved the other two notes from his chest pocket. The paper was warm from his body heat as he opened them and arranged them on his desk. Frowning, he noticed that the edges matched, as did the ink and the handwriting. One large sheet, written all at once and then cut up into four pieces.

He sat back at his desk and frowned. Who on this ship had access to the paper and ink, knew how to write like this, knew his schedule and knew his preferences in poetry.

He frowned and re-read the verses again. The lower right quadrant was still missing, and he traced a finger along the sliced edge of the page. The final piece of the puzzle.

Sighing, he left the papers on his desk and walked into shower. As steam filled the small room, he recited the verses to himself, his speculating wildly as to their possible source. Toweling his hair dry, he walked back into the dimly lit main section of his quarters, still murmuring the words. Automatically, his eyes traveled his book shelf and skipped across the volumes there. He froze, then crossed the room in two long strides.

The book wasn't there. Frantically, he flipped through the other volumes, then pushed around the few padds and items on the desk below, knowing it to be futile. Large leatherbound folio books did not just vanish.

He straightened, then stiffened as someone cleared their throat behind him. Spinning, he dropped into combat posture.

The silhouetted figure on the bunk didn't move. Head bent, legs crossed, he cleared his throat again and began to read.

"Beauty, midnight, vision dies." Malcolm straightened slowly as the warm, familiar voice continued.

"Let the winds of dawn that blow  
Softly round your dreaming head  
Such a day of welcome show  
Eye and knocking heart may bless,  
Find our mortal world enoughâ€¦"

The voice cracked slightly, but recovered quickly as Malcolm moved slowly across the room to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Noons of dryness find you fed  
By the involuntary powers,  
Nights of insult let you pass."

The face looked up from the open book to meet Malcolm's eye as he recited the final line.

"Watched by every human love." Careful hands closed the book. "I think I like that line the best."

Malcolm laid his hand over the other man's. "Trip - why?"

The blonde head ducked for a moment before lifting to look at him again. "I know it's ya favourite."

"I didn't know you could write so beautifully, Trip."

He ducked his head again, his blush visible even in the low light. "I was gonna just send it to ya terminal, but¦" he shrugged. "I had the paper, and it seemed appropriate." He looked up and grinned. "Took me about five goes to write it all out correctly, without messing it up."

Malcolm edged a little closer. "I appreciate the effort. But why did you do this for me?"

Trip stiffened slightly. "Ya don't like it?"

He bit his lip. "It's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me, to be perfectly honest." He smiled shakily. "Trip?"

The other man flipped the book back open. The spine, broken from being turned so often to the same place, opened on the poem. "What's your favourite bit, Malcolm?"

Malcolm recited from memory. "But from this night/Not a whisper, not a thought,/Not a kiss nor look be lost."

Trip's voice quavered slightly. "Is that an invitation?"

In reply, Malcolm leant over and kissed him.

Trip smiled as he leaned into the kiss. "Malcolm?"

"Yes?"

"May I stay?"

In reply, Malcolm slid up and under Trip's arm, moulding his body to rest against Trip's. "Read to me." Beneath him, he felt Trip's chest move in a silent chuckle. Pressing a kiss onto Malcolm's hair, he wrapped one arm around Malcolm's shoulders as he retrieved the book with the other.

"Rest your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm."

~##~


	2. somewhere i have never traveled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A different approach to a classical education

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'somewhere i have never traveled' is by ee cummings. The full poem is used here. The interpretations are my own, so I wouldn't quote it in your lit crit assignments :)

He found the first one taped to his door in such a way that when he left his quarters it fluttered to the floor at his feet. He picked it up, curious. Touch told him it was real paper, soft and textured. He looked up and down the corridor, but as expected, he saw no one.

Paused on the threshold, he cautiously opened the folded scrap. Green ink etched in graceful, careful, loops and arcs. For a moment, he just stared. Paper was rare enough, and he could not recall the last time he saw handwriting, let alone calligraphy.

Then the words that were written seeped into his mind. He read them once, then read them again, his lips silently moving as he spoke the ancient, familiar, words to himself.

Lay your sleeping head, my love,  
Human on my faithless arm;  
Time and fevers burn away  
Individual beauty from  
Thoughtful children, and the grave  
Proves the child ephemeral:  
But in my arms till break of day  
Let the living creature lie,  
Mortal, guilty, but to me  
The entirely beautiful.

 

He closed the fold carefully, not wanting to add any more creases to the page. Gently, he slid it into his chest pocket, and, with a thoughtful expression, continued on his way to the mess hall.

~#~

The second one was waiting in his armoury. He knew he was a creature of habit, knew that his routine had him within his domain a good half an hour before anyone else appeared. He preferred this time alone, and made his preference known to his teams. He liked having this time to make sure all was right with his ship before beginning the work of the day.

His poetic ghost obviously knew his routine as well. The carefully folded piece of cream-coloured paper was sitting on his station, instantly noticeable amid all the grey steel and black paneling.

He paused only a second before picking up the page. It was the same green ink, the same graceful writing. He smiled to himself as he read the verse it contained.

Soul and body have no bounds:  
To lovers as they lie upon  
Her tolerant enchanted slope  
In their ordinary swoon,  
Grave the vision Venus sends  
Of supernatural sympathy,  
Universal love and hope;  
While an abstract insight wakes  
Among the glaciers and the rocks  
The hermit's carnal ecstasy.

 

He raised an eyebrow as he refolded the piece.

"Morning, sir!"

He slid the page into his pocket as he turned around. "Good morning, Mister Tanner." He couldn't help himself. "Bearding the hermit's den early, I see."

"Sir?"

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the silly, giddy feeling that had been building up inside of him. "Nothing, crewman. Let's get started on that aft cannon assembly."

~#~

Despite keeping his eyes peeled for more tell-tale pieces of paper, he received no more poetry that day. He firmly straightened himself out as he rode the lift to the mess hall, and tried not to feel put out by lack of any more mysterious gifts.

"Malcolm!" a familiar voice hailed him as he walked into the busy mess hall. Waving a greeting, he fetched himself a tray before moving over to join Travis.

"Evening," he greeted him as he settled himself down at the table. "Just us tonight?"

Travis nodded. "Commander Tucker was in here a little while ago, but he had to go back to the engine room. Said something about a difficult repair he was working on." He grinned. "Poor guys gonna be there until tomorrow, by the sound of it. But hey, have you heard the rumour?"

Nodding briefly, he applied himself to his meal as Travis caught him up on the latest shipboard gossip. But his thoughts were far away, lines of poetry echoing around his mind. A female voice cut through his musings. "Lieutenant?"

Blinking, cursing himself for drifting so far, he looked up and smiled at Hoshi. "Sorry, miles away. How are you, Hoshi?"

"Intrigued," she replied with a playful grin. "I've never had to physically deliver intra-ship mail before."

With a mounting sense of dread, he accepted the now-familiar creamy fold of paper. He looked at it for a long moment, the texture warm and soothing under his touch. "If you would excuse me?" he murmured as he rose to his feet.

Hoshi groaned. "Spoilsport. Its been burning a hole in my pocket all day."

Malcolm frowned. "All day?"

She nodded as she stole a carrot stick off his tray. "It was on my console when I went on duty this morning, in an envelope which had strict delivery instructions written on it." She shrugged. "I didn't even know we had that kind of paper on board." She nibbled on the edge of the stick as she looked at him. "So, who's it from?"

He slipped the unread note into his pocket and picked up his tray. "Good evening, ensigns." Ignoring their theatrical groans of disappointment, he beat a hasty retreat from the mess hall crowds. He forced himself not to open it until he was safely back in his quarters.

Certainty, fidelity  
On the stroke of midnight pass  
Like vibrations of a bell  
And fashionable madmen raise  
Their pedantic boring cry:  
Every farthing of the cost,  
All the dreaded cards foretell,  
Shall be paid, but from this night  
Not a whisper, not a thought,  
Not a kiss nor look be lost.

 

Sighing, he retrieved the other two notes from his chest pocket. The paper was warm from his body heat as he opened them and arranged them on his desk. Frowning, he noticed that the edges matched, as did the ink and the handwriting. One large sheet, written all at once and then cut up into four pieces.

He sat back at his desk and frowned. Who on this ship had access to the paper and ink, knew how to write like this, knew his schedule and knew his preferences in poetry.

He frowned and re-read the verses again. The lower right quadrant was still missing, and he traced a finger along the sliced edge of the page. The final piece of the puzzle.

Sighing, he left the papers on his desk and walked into shower. As steam filled the small room, he recited the verses to himself, his speculating wildly as to their possible source. Toweling his hair dry, he walked back into the dimly lit main section of his quarters, still murmuring the words. Automatically, his eyes traveled his book shelf and skipped across the volumes there. He froze, then crossed the room in two long strides.

The book wasn't there. Frantically, he flipped through the other volumes, then pushed around the few padds and items on the desk below, knowing it to be futile. Large leatherbound folio books did not just vanish.

He straightened, then stiffened as someone cleared their throat behind him. Spinning, he dropped into combat posture.

The silhouetted figure on the bunk didn't move. Head bent, legs crossed, he cleared his throat again and began to read.

"Beauty, midnight, vision dies." Malcolm straightened slowly as the warm, familiar voice continued.

"Let the winds of dawn that blow  
Softly round your dreaming head  
Such a day of welcome show  
Eye and knocking heart may bless,  
Find our mortal world enoughâ€¦"

The voice cracked slightly, but recovered quickly as Malcolm moved slowly across the room to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Noons of dryness find you fed  
By the involuntary powers,  
Nights of insult let you pass."

The face looked up from the open book to meet Malcolm's eye as he recited the final line.

"Watched by every human love." Careful hands closed the book. "I think I like that line the best."

Malcolm laid his hand over the other man's. "Trip - why?"

The blonde head ducked for a moment before lifting to look at him again. "I know it's ya favourite."

"I didn't know you could write so beautifully, Trip."

He ducked his head again, his blush visible even in the low light. "I was gonna just send it to ya terminal, but¦" he shrugged. "I had the paper, and it seemed appropriate." He looked up and grinned. "Took me about five goes to write it all out correctly, without messing it up."

Malcolm edged a little closer. "I appreciate the effort. But why did you do this for me?"

Trip stiffened slightly. "Ya don't like it?"

He bit his lip. "It's the most beautiful thing anyone has ever done for me, to be perfectly honest." He smiled shakily. "Trip?"

The other man flipped the book back open. The spine, broken from being turned so often to the same place, opened on the poem. "What's your favourite bit, Malcolm?"

Malcolm recited from memory. "But from this night/Not a whisper, not a thought,/Not a kiss nor look be lost."

Trip's voice quavered slightly. "Is that an invitation?"

In reply, Malcolm leant over and kissed him.

Trip smiled as he leaned into the kiss. "Malcolm?"

"Yes?"

"May I stay?"

In reply, Malcolm slid up and under Trip's arm, moulding his body to rest against Trip's. "Read to me." Beneath him, he felt Trip's chest move in a silent chuckle. Pressing a kiss onto Malcolm's hair, he wrapped one arm around Malcolm's shoulders as he retrieved the book with the other.

"Rest your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm."

~##~


	3. Stop The Clocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stop the Clocks is by WH Auden. Everyone knows the first part, but I have always thought the second was more poignant and painful. I thought there's been enough sap for the month, time to bring a darker shade of bunny.

Trip stared at his reflection in the curved glass, ignoring the muted noise behind him. The others recognized his need for solitude and formed a loose half-circle a few paces back, protecting him from the empty kind words of strangers.

Finally, one broke from the circle and moved forward to lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. Trip looked over at Jon and saw him nod minutely.

It was time.

He stepped away from the glass, and Hoshi moved up to stand beside him, her pretty face shining wet with silent tears. Trip gave her a wan smile that started her crying silently again even as she returned the gesture. He held his arm out and she burrowed into his side for a second, her tiny body shaking with grief and guilt. He bent his head to press a soft kiss into her hair before letting her go. She stepped back, straightening her shoulders, resolve on her features. Together, the three followed Travis as he cleared a path for them into the room.

There was no coffin. Trip didn't know if that made it easier or worse.

There were no flowers. Trip had insisted on that. Allergies had meant that Trip had never offered him flowers before, and it seemed an insult to do so now.

There were family members, but they were seated, looking confused and insulted, several rows back, again at Trip's insistence. Their real family, the ones who had stuck by them through it all, wore Starfleet uniforms and expressions of true grief as they moved silently forward to nod their respects before taking their positions.

The memorial started with Admiral Forrest speaking, but Trip didn't hear the words. He had removed from his pocket a well-worn and crumpled piece of cream-coloured paper, and was clutching it like a talisman against the truth. Beside him, Jon patted his arm once before moving up to speak. Eyes on the page, he let his old friend's words wash over him.

"Malcolm Reed was an exemplary officer, whose bravery, intelligence, skill, and composure were an example to us all. But I don't want to tell you his resume. I want to tell you about the man I was not only honoured to serve with, but who I was also proud to call friend..."

Trip closed his eyes, shaking slightly as he saw a thousand snap- shot images flow across his minds' eye as Jon's stories triggered memory after memory.

"And now, I would ask Charles Tucker the Third to say a few words."

No, no he didn't want to. Because if he said the words, then it would all be horribly, horribly true. But he rose to his feet and walked to the small dais at the front of the room.

Because it was true.

Malcolm was dead.

He took a deep breath. "Malcolm and I were-" he hesitated, smiled, and continued. "Well, he said we were as different as night and day. I always used to argue that night and day at least had dawn and dusk in common." A slight ripple moved through the crowd as all those who had worked with the pair murmured their agreement. "But I think that's what made what we had so damn special. We complimented each other perfectly." He bit his lip. "We were better together than we could ever have dreamed of being apart." He sighed, and stared for a long moment at the piece of paper he still clutched in his hands.

"Malcolm loved poetry. I know not many of ya would believe that, what with that hard-assed stare he always had on-duty, but he really did." He stroked the fragment once more, then slipped it into his pocket, turning his full attention to the audience. "And it was through his enthusiasm that I found out I liked poetry too. That was what our life together was like. Each taking the other somewhere new and interesting, every day, in a thousand different ways." His eyes grew unfocussed. "And I don't know..." Sighing, he put that thought away.

"I was gonna read you his favourite piece, but in his book there was another poem next to it. I think it's more..." he shrugged, unwilling to say 'appropriate.' Clearing his throat, he began to recite from memory.

"Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,  
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,  
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum  
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come."

In the audience, people shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Trip ignored them and continued.

"Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead  
Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,  
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,  
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves."

Leaning on the podium for support, he began the harder, truer, verses.

"He was my North, my South, my East and West,  
My working week and my Sunday rest,  
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;  
I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

"The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;  
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;  
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.  
For nothing now can ever come to any good."

There was absolute silence. Trip bowed his head, his eyes closed.

"Goodbye, Malcolm."

~~##~~

Jon refused to let him go home alone, instead co-opting Hoshi and Travis to herd him into a shuttle as soon as the official service was over, flying him back down to the blue-green planet below.

It was raining as they touched down on the pad in San Fransisco, a cliche that Trip still found somewhat appropriate. He stood beside the shuttle, letting the rain roll down his face like tears, until firm hands took hold and pulled him into the waiting groundcar.

They drove, Trip staring out but not seeing the passing scenery as words and measures echoed around his head. Only when Travis turned off the engine did he realize where they were.

Inside Jon's home, everyone moved, busying themselves with simple tasks, barely speaking to each other. Trip let Hoshi pull his wet coat off him and push him towards the couch. It seemed so surreal, like a dream.

Or a nightmare.

A snuffling noise by his feet made him look down. Porthos was there, his little tail subdued as he sniffed at his bag that Hoshi must have taken control of.

Without thinking, Trip leant over and undid the clasp, reverently removing the contents.

Porthos watched Trip as he stroked the leather cover of the folio with a tilted head. Straightening, he gave a little whine.

"Porthos?"

Trip reached down and scratched the dog between the ears. "He's okay, Jon."

"What have you got there, Trip?"

He looked up at Jon, turning to watch as Hoshi and Trip re-entered the room followed by Phlox and T'Pol. "It's Malcolm's book of poetry. He had it made especially, a gift to himself for his twenty-first birthday." Deftly, he flipped it open to the right page. "He loved this one best."

Hoshi came to sit on the arm of the couch, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Pointing at the facing page, she asked, "is that the one you read today?"

"Just the first part." He chuckled, but the sound caught in his throat. "I didn't want to read the second part in front of all of them." He looked up as his friends moved to sit around him. "I don't think they'd really connect it with my Malcolm."

He smiled shakily and began to read.

"O the valley in the summer where I and my John  
Beside the deep river would walk on and on  
While the flowers at our feet and the birds up above  
Argued so sweetly on reciprocal love,  
And I leaned on his shoulder; 'O Johnny, let's play':  
But he frowned like thunder and he went away."

Trip paused, images of a thousand and one away missions dancing through his mind.

"O that Friday near Christmas as I well recall  
When we went to the Charity Matinee Ball,  
The floor was so smooth and the band was so loud  
And Johnny so handsome I felt so proud;  
'Squeeze me tighter, dear Johnny, let's dance till it's day':  
But he frowned like thunder and he went away."

The argument they had about correct and proper behaviour Trip wanting the world to know he was in love, Malcolm wanted to keep it discrete. The problem had been solved by the simple fact that everyone on Trip's deck had heard what they were yelling at each other. Malcolm's worst fears had been proven unfounded, and they had never mentioned the argument again.

"Shall I ever forget at the Grand Opera  
When music poured out of each wonderful star?  
Diamonds and pearls they hung dazzling down  
Over each silver and golden silk gown;  
'O John I'm in heaven,' I whispered to say:  
But he frowned like thunder and he went away."

Trip stroked the well-worn edges of the leather binding, remembering how a discussion on poetry had turned into a discussion of music, the amazing discovery that Malcolm actually liked rhythm and blues, he and Trip staying up past midnight for over a week as they exhausted Trip's entire music collection.

"O but he was fair as a garden in flower,  
As slender and tall as the great Eiffel Tower,  
When the waltz throbbed out on the long promenade  
O his eyes and his smile they went straight to my heart;  
'O marry me, Johnny, I'll love and obey':  
But he frowned like thunder and he went away."

Trip had asked Malcolm to make the commitment in rhyme, his own crude poetry a pale imitation of the verses Malcolm had loved most. But the joy in his eyes had been real as he had accepted. They were going to announce it at the captain's table that night. But then there had been the emergency, the away mission, Malcolm waving to Trip casually as he climbed into the shuttle. They had returned without him, Travis pale and Hoshi curled up in a foetal ball in the back of the pod, her face covered in blood and her eyes filled with guilt as she looked at Trip...

"O last night I dreamed of you, Johnny, my lover,  
You'd the sun on one arm and the moon on the other,  
The sea it was blue and the grass it was green,  
Every star rattled a round tambourine;  
Ten thousand miles deep in a pit there I lay:  
But you frowned like thunder and you went away. "

 

Trip closed the book. "You went away." Something deep inside him finally broke, and the book fell to the floor as he curled up in on himself. "Oh god, Malcolm, you went away!"

And finally, Trip cried.

~~##~~


End file.
